Lost at sea
by GalaxyPest
Summary: A short one-shot kind of thing I did for an assignment and decided to upload here. Set many years after the events in Lord of the Flies, where the boys were taken to Rapture after being rescued and have grown there in the city of nightmares. Rated K because murder (and future suicide themes?) I may finish this, maybe this year. -Sorry for butchering classic literature-
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 13 -** Ralph

Elegant piano music flowed throughout the entire house, trapping any who would listen into it's beautiful melody. Each ivory key was stroked at the perfect time until the audience was overwhelmed with every emotion. Happiness, deep sorrow, and even irritation.

As the last key punctuated the composer's piece the audience of suits and dresses stood to applaud. The jarring noise brought Ralph back to his senses. Immediately he stood up to applaud with the rest of the crowd. The pianist, now standing at the front of the stage, bowed humbly to his adoring crowd.

Ralph looked up at the artist's face wearily, a smirk played on his lips that could've been mistaken for humble modesty. But it didn't fool Ralph. As the pianist waltzed off the stage followed by the scattered remains of applause, Ralph also exited the theatre. Following the velvet path lit by neon advertisements he approached the backstage door, opening it just as muffled instruments started up back in the theatre. As he entered the backstage area the first thing that caught his attention was a grand piano, polished from top to bottom and situated in the centre of the room. The second was the white-suited pianist from just a minute ago, who leant against the far wall smoking a cigar.

"Hey! Who are you? No secur-" He faltered, face flashing in recognition before settling to a bemused expression. Ralph remained stoic, hands stuffed in his trench-coat pockets and hat pushed low over his blonde hair. "That dark attire doesn't flatter you." The man hummed, trying to sound pleasant but his expression betrayed him.

"At least I don't look like one of Cohen's suited puppets." Ralph answered back gruffly. The man seemed taken aback by his aggressive disposition. He seemed eager to retaliate, no doubt trying to defend his rather… ambitious employer, and mentor, but Ralph didn't come down to Fort Frolic to discuss Sander Cohen or his 'muse'. "Heard you've been pulling in larger crowds lately…" The man took the hint, his eyes widening.

"Ralph-" he tugged at his scarlet bow-tie nervously. "Come on, you- you have to tell Sinclair… I still have time!"

"Roger." Ralph's calloused hand hovered next to his coat opening, "Calm down." Roger ran a shaking hand through his mousy brown hair, breathing deeply before continuing.

"I-I have the money, I just need more time…" He looked up at the burly man with a pleading expression. "You can't make me go back to Mercury Suites! The res— There's people needling all over the place!" Ralph grimaced unpleasantly at the man's desperate blubbering. He knew this would happen, it always did, but that did nothing to ease his conscience. But maybe, he thought with Roger, it would be easier…

It certainly didn't feel any easier.

"You know I'm just doing my job Roger-" Ralph stuffed his hands back into his pockets, shuffling his feet uncomfortably. "Whatever happens to you isn't me, or Sinclair's problem." Roger's face seemed to suddenly darken, and as he made eye-contact with Ralph again it was obvious he had given up grovelling.

"It used to be your problem." He growled, dropping the cigar he'd been clutching this whole time and grinding it under one foot. "But now— you're just Sinclair's stone-hearted block head." He took a step forward and immediately Ralph drew his pistol from the inside of his coat. Roger froze, then slowly began to laugh. "What? You're gonna shoot me?"

"Stand down Roger." Ralph growled through gritted teeth, barrel aimed at Roger's chest. He clicked down the hammer as Roger merely let out another barking laugh.

"Oh, I know you too well Ralph." Another step, causing Ralph to take one backwards. "You can't- you WON'T kill me. You couldn't even kill a pig on that damned island-" He had struck a nerve, and he knew it. "So. You can tell Sincla—"

Thunder cracked through the room, sending Ralph's ears ringing as smoke curled from his barrel. Stowing the gun, he walked over to Roger's body, lying sprawled on the floor. From where he stood he could hear the ragged, wet gasps of breath tearing at Roger's blood-stained throat.

"Mr. Sinclair considers your debts paid." He found no satisfaction, no closure as the words left his lips. Only grim acceptance. What was done, was done.

As Ralph left the room, tugging his hat back over his brow, Roger lay sucking in his final breaths. Final memories playing through his mind, the only sense of peace Roger felt came from the muffled song of fading instruments playing in the distance…


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 13 - Jack**

Jack's eyebrows were knitted in concentration as he applied the final stroke to his painting. Standing back, hands on hips, he smiled in satisfaction.

"Looks great Merridew!" Steve grinned slapping him on the back, "You're a natural painter mate!"

Jack shook his head, "It's just a good surface, really… brings out the shadows…" He hesitated, "But I'll admit, it's my best one today."

"Damn right it is you modest idiot!" Steve laughed, "Might have ta switch to your paints permanently."

"As soon as the stamp machine's up and running, I'm going straight back to the front line." Jack smiled, imagining just that. "Besides, s'not like Atlas has much use for artists." He sneered at the word, all the artists he knew were snobby bastards. He doubted any one of them had ever visited Apollo Square; where they both stood now.

"Artists… all loons in my books." Steve snorted, reflecting Jack's attitude. But Jack fixed him with a lopsided grin anyway.

"I seem to remember Atlas saying something like that recently. You writing his scripts now Steve?"

"Ah, shut up you wanker!" Steve scowled, but then let out a hearty laugh. "It's not like I'm the only one regurgitating his speeches."

It was Jack's turn to chuckle, "Yeah well, he's certainly saying things worthy of note-taking."

Steve nodded. "Anyways, I better get back to 'munitions." He picked up the Tommy gun he had dropped, "I'll tell the boys you said hi."

Jack merely grunted in response as Steve walked off towards the far gate, easily blending in with the rest of the poor fellows in the square. Looking back at his hand-painted poster Jack felt a strange sense of pride. It had been a while since he painted, as the hobby seemed to bring back some… he shook his head… memories.

But it wasn't as if he could simply say 'no' to Atlas. He was part of his rebellion now, despite the only thing him being able to offer being loyalty. But if that was all he could give, then he would give it one-hundred per-cent.

Joining the man's army had seemed like he was taking a gamble earlier on, but it had definitely panned out. They were growing in number and strength, and the raids on Ryan's storehouses were becoming more and more frequent now a' days.

Ryan. Jack's expression soured at the name. Owner of this damned city, and a down-right hypocritical bastard if ever he'd seen one.

He was reminiscing on the man's latest speech in distaste when he heard someone call his name from across the square.

"Merridew!"

He turned to see a flustered-looking weasel of a man jogging towards him, clearly out of breath.

"Merridew!" He repeated with a gasp as he caught up to him. People around the square were starting to goggle at the commotion the small man was making. Jack felt his face flush with embarrassment as the man finally caught up with him.

"What is it Charlie?" Jack muttered irritably, annoyed at the scene he was causing.

"Atlas has asked to see you… personally…"

Jack froze, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. "M- - me? You're sure?"

"He said in the next ten minutes—"

"DAMN IT CHARLIE!" Jack cried, pushing the man aside as he sprinted for the far gate. Charlie gave out a yelp as the older ginger shoved him aside, barely managing to keep his footing.

"You're welcome." He muttered bitterly as he saw the startled crowd parting for the frantic man further down the square.

—

Jack fiddled nervous with the loose button near his collar. Sweat was beginning to bead on his forehead as he waited in anticipation opposite Atlas' empty desk. He had never met him in person before, not too many had, but he felt as if he were already a close friend. Just one with extreme social influence, leading a rebellion against Andrew Ryan himself…

He swallowed nervously and moved his hand to begin picking at the splintered wood of the chair just as the door slid open, causing him to jump out of his skin.

A ragged-looking man, definitely splicing, walked in as Jack gripped onto the seat of the chair. He shot a sneer in Jack's direction before settling to stand next to the door.

Jack felt as if his heart was climbing up his throat when the other man walked in; he was of average height, wearing black suspenders and a white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows showing distinctly worker's forearms. You could say he was classically handsome, with the strong jaw-line of a leader. Seeing him now, in person, Jack thought the his painting had captured his likeness pretty well.

"Mr. Merridew." Atlas greeted in his trademark Irish lilt, taking a seat behind his desk.

"Atlas," He greeted back, leaning forward to offer a hand which the man shook with a smile. "I'm glad to finally meet you in the flesh."

"Aye, as am I." Atlas replied, pulling a golden box out of his pocket. He pulled a cigarette from the box, lighting it as he offered the box to Jack. Jack took one gratefully, accepting the lighter he drew a long inhale. His eyes widened in surprise and Atlas seemed to catch his surprise.

"Only the best," He chuckled, "if Ryan can indulge himself, then I feel as if it's only fair we do too…" Jack smiled at this, agreeing with a nod, before stiffening dramatically as the topic shifted—

"I've been conversing with some folks around Pauper' Drop, been saying something about you n' an island?"

Jack slowly nodded again.

"I—umm… when I was a kid, me and bunch of other boys… we were stranded… on an island…" Atlas invited him to continue with a stretch of silence, "It didn't—it didn't go well…" He avoided the man's piercing blue gaze that seemed as if it could divulge any secret from him, opting instead to staring at the ashtray on the desk.

"Boyo," Atlas sighed, leaning back and running a hand through his brown hair, "You sure sound like you've been through hell n' back." Jack smirked at the ashtray.

"It seemed like it back then, but now…" He simply gestured to the walls around them, and Atlas smirked as well.

"Now you're a permanent resident."

"Exactly."

Atlas fixed Jack with a genuine smile of sympathy, "I get it boyo, we all got to start from somewhere—I was a mere metal-worker me-self before this whole revolution."

Jack was well aware of Atlas' story, his family, and what he had accomplished. But he merely smiled and nodded, it was one of the more inspirational origin tales in the city and despite himself he still enjoyed hearing it. But the man seemed to have something different in mind as he placed his elbows on the desk and fixed Jack with a hard glare. Jack suddenly remembered how he had felt not to long ago, and began to squirm in his seat again.

"Now Merridew, what we're about to discuss is some sensitive information," Jack swallowed, suddenly and painfully aware of his Adam's apple. "It doesn't leave this here office, got it?"

"Yes." Jack barely managed to choke out, he was gripping the sides of the seat again.

Seeming satisfied, Atlas nodded to the guard next to the door, who—honestly, Jack had forgotten was there. With surprising formality, the guard stepped forward and handed Atlas a folder before returning to his post next to the door. Jack hazarded a guess that he was in the know.

"This." Atlas began, holding up the pale-blue folder. "This here's our game-changer, our secret weapon boyo." Jack's eyes gleamed with curiosity as he stared at the folder, what could possibly be secretive enough to keep from the entire rebellion? And more importantly, was was he getting to see it?

"Long time coming too," Atlas continued, laughing without humour as he eyed the folder in one hand. "and it needs safe transport to it's final destination."

It didn't take a genius to understand what he was getting at, who he was taking about—

"Me?" Jack questioned in confusion, but he couldn't hid the smugness behind his voice, "But why-"

"You've proven to be loyal enough to the cause…" Atlas explained, waving his hand as he did so and leaving a trail of smoke. This reminded Jack of his own cigarette, which he disappointedly found out had gone out, neglected in his spare hand.

"So, I'm asking this now…" Jack turned his attention back to Atlas quickly as he held out the folder. "Would you kindly take this to me outpost in Siren Alley?"

As if it was even a question.

"I will, for the cause Atlas." Jack took the folder and stood, pride swelling his chest till it felt as if it might burst.

"Good to hear Mr. Merridew, one more thing tho'…" Jack could tell what was coming next, "Don't go looking at what's in the folder now, got it?"

Jack nodded, he could tell when Atlas meant what he was saying, and this was definitely one of those times. But besides that, he could tell it was his cue to leave. Folder clutched to his chest, he turned to leave the room before stopping, hearing a dark laugh behind him.

"War's on in full now boys." Atlas chuckled, flicking his cigarette onto the floor as he glared out the porthole of his office, "And I've got an ace up my sleeve, that Ryan's never gonna see comin'."

Jack left without another word, goose-bumps crawled over his back and he felt as if the entire city was shuddering with the inevitable.

It would all be over soon…


End file.
